


Daughter of the Sea

by elixirsoflife



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: HPFT, F/M, Fuck Albus Potter, I Love You But Not In This, I'm Sorry Al, Post-Hogwarts, Selkies, Slytherin Albus Severus Potter, V Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 04:38:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elixirsoflife/pseuds/elixirsoflife
Summary: In the distance, a figure rises from the sea.





	Daughter of the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> written for: crimson quill and nott theodore's seven deadly sins challenge on hpft
> 
> sin chosen: lust
> 
> this was originally also written for the prefects' challenge where the myth i chose was the SELKIE. these are mythological creatures who take on the form of seals when in the sea but can shed their coat and appear human once they come on land. if their coat is taken by a human, they are bound to that human (usually in a forced marriage) until they get their hands back on the coat. at which point they leave for the sea and can never return. in this fic, i've made it so that selkies must have their coats HANDED back to them, rather than just grabbing it and going.
> 
> also i have never written about sex this much before lmao

His bed is warm tonight.

There’s a body under his own, legs tangled with sheets and more legs. There’s a mouth running along his neck, teeth scraping skin, breath hot against his ear. There are fingers splayed on his back and black hair in his greedy grasp, and there’s his name – _Al, Al, Al_ – over and over again, like a sinful prayer.

No name drips from his own tongue as he licks into her mouth. Truth be told, he forgot it before she even finished introducing herself. She’s merely a body, a means to an end, and she will be forgotten once the sun peeks out over the horizon in the morning. But right now, it is the moon who conquers the sky, just as Al conquers this witch, and so she is all that matters.

(In the distance, a figure rises from the sea.)

* * *

Al likes sex. A lot, in fact.

Few things in life are as sublime as rocking against another person, as primal and as brutally satisfying as the physical pleasures of the body. He likes hair splayed across his pillowcases and bruises on his torso and the satiation of exhaustion. He likes messy passion and arched backs and he likes knowing that all he has to do is offer a certain smile to anyone who catches his fancy and he’ll be tossing up their skirt minutes later – and who is he to hold back such raw power?

To put it crassly, he fucks indiscriminately and impulsively, and it’s great.

At Hogwarts, it was the topic of many conversations with his friends, boyish remarks tossed about with badly-concealed awe. Nowadays, there’s less admiration and more frowns, blatant bucketfuls of disapproval whenever he says that no, he doesn’t want to settle down and yes, he’s very happy knowing random women for only a handful of minutes every day of the week. For people who live for so long, wizards really are _annoyingly_ intent on marrying far too early.

“You bloody nympho,” Scorpius sighs in defeat when they meet for lunch one afternoon and Al’s proudly marked up.

The pureblood orders a sensible meal – a quarter chicken with roast potatoes, a light salad on the side – to match his sensible robes, and they set about pretending they’re still the same cheeky Slytherin boys they used to be.

Al snickers. “Better that than being chained to Rosie for the rest of my life.”

“Marriage isn’t a _chain_ , you know.” Scorpius rolls his eyes heavenwards. Unfortunately, this is a conversation they have all too regularly. “I’m actually really happy with her. You wouldn’t understand.”

In that, he’s right. Al doesn’t understand. And he doesn’t particularly want to either. To be tethered to one woman, to have to tamper down on his appetite and pretend like he isn’t turned on by, say,  the curve of the waitress’ legs or the slender waist of the mother over by the fountain, sounds like a punishment straight from hell. Like being incarcerated in a glass box, forced to watch everything he can’t have, a world of carnal pleasure just out of reach.

At least, that’s what he thinks until he meets Leith.

* * *

 

Leith enters Montrose quietly.

He spots her one day in a café near where he works, inspecting a knickerbocker glory like it’s a shiny new toy. Hair so pale he’s inclined to dub her a Veela, eyes like Arctic ice caps. Toned legs cross under the shiny table-top, a network of green veins inked close to the surface, and her frame is slender under a thick, ash grey coat of fur.

He sees her.

He wants her.

So, he slides into the empty spot opposite where she’s sat and smiles his special smile, steals glances from under his lashes, smooths his voice into a low murmur of faintly suggestive comments – all tried and true tactics, all certain to work and she, well, she –  

“This place is very strange, don’t you think?” she says, English coloured with an accent he can’t quite place. Her fingers idly push melting ice cream around the tall glass, spoon tapping the edges. “The food, the air… Even the people. Like you. You’re strange. Tell me: is everyone here strange too? Like you?”

His fingers creep towards her. Confesses, “No one’s like me.”

“Interesting.”

Her hand pulls back before his can meet it. Smiling faintly, she stands up and leaves the café without another word, a little bell tinkling in her wake. Al is left behind to blink in shock by himself.

* * *

 

No one has ever said no to him before and that’s probably why his desire escalates so out of control. Of course, there are still bodies in his bed most days, or in between his legs, or pressed against the brick wall behind work; still swollen lips in his life and nails on his skin and blissful oblivion overpowering his mind –

But there’s also talking to Leith whenever he sees her in the streets, flirty comments spilling from him like water at a fountain. There are fingers trailing against the arms of her soft coat, and dreams where he does much more than that, and countless attempts to get her to just _give in_ to him…

And on her end, there is nothing but faint smiles and a hundred miles of distance in icy grey eyes. Kindness lurks in her indulgence, yes, but he doesn’t want _kindness._ He’s not some puppy to pity or pet on the odd occasion. He wants full-blown, ready-to-burst-at-any-moment arousal. The kind where teeth draw copper from his lips and his legs end up shaking like he’s forgotten how to walk. The kind that erupts and smoulders at less than a moment’s notice.

He wants to be all she’s ever wanted.

Not someone she observes from a removed distance, like he’s something alien to marvel at.

Admittedly, it doesn’t dishearten him either way, how elusive and unattainable she is. He’s a Slytherin, after all. They’re born determined and resourceful, latching onto seemingly impossible goals, if only to will them into reality.

And in the back of his mind, there are puzzle pieces slowly fitting together, collecting facts about Leith until he can finally strike and win this game.

* * *

 

It happens in the summer, several months after Leith first appeared in town. The Magpies have just won the Quidditch League and an impromptu celebration breaks out in Montrose: wizards drunk on victory and Ogden’s, fireworks streaming from wands, music blasting in the streets. Camaraderie is heavy in the air and arousal is low in his gut, his skin itching for the touch of a lover and –

“Oh, sorry,” Al says when he rounds a corner and collides roughly with someone going the opposite way.

Something soft slips past the back of his hand and towards the ground; he automatically grabs it, reflexes engrained in him from when he was a Seeker back at school. Leith throws her hand out a split-second later, sharp nails scrabbling against his flesh.

“That’s _mine!”_ she snaps with a vehemence that doesn’t fit the situation. When he blinks, she seems to realise this, high spots of pink appearing in her cheeks. “Sorry, I just… this is my favourite coat and I… like it a lot,” she trails off lamely.

Her palm is still over his.

“I can see that,” says Al slowly. Amusement slips into his voice, attempting to diffuse the tension. “You’re never without it, even when we’re in the middle of a heatwave.”

“Yes, well.” She licks her lips. He doesn’t attempt to hide his stare. “It’s… very important to me. My mother gave it.”

“That was nice of her. She has excellent taste by the way, it’s very soft. What material is it?”

“Seal,” she says and attempts to tug it out of his grip. “Thank you for catching it before it got dirty, but if you will excuse me, I have somewhere to go so – “

_Wait._

Pause. Rewind. Play.

Leith first appeared in the coastal town of Montrose months ago seemingly out of the blue. No stranger to the wizarding world, Al initially cast the strange woman as a Veela, though the succeeding months bled that out of his mind due to how little she seemed to know about everything, Muggle or magical. She has no family in Britain, no friends she refers to, and she always wears or carries a large coat _made from seal fur_ –

Al tears it from her grasp just as the dots connect in his brain. “No.”

If there were any doubts before about his suspicions, they evaporate in the face of her blatant fear. Anxious eyes flicker from the coat pressed to his chest and his resolute stare.

“What are you doing?” she breathes. Her voice struggles to stay calm. “That’s – that’s not yours to take, it’s _mine_ – “

“You’re a Selkie, aren’t you?” he says. It’s not even a question, his tone flat and neutral. He just throws it out there and watches her panic with a detached satisfaction. “You know, I don’t know why I didn’t guess it earlier. The signs have been there all along when I think back.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

Leith clenches her fists. “Al,” she says, barely reining in her anger. _“Give me my coat._ ”

Head cocked to one side, he lifts the article in the air between them. The contrast between the grey of the fur and the white of the face behind it speaks of a victory greater than what Montrose is currently celebrating. It’s something so much more _powerful_ than winning the Quidditch League for the fifth year in a row, so much more gratifying. Al’s head spins with the knowledge, with the _power._

He brings the coat back to his chest.

Says, “No.”

And walks away.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’ve settled down,” says Scorpius in disbelief when they meet for lunch and Al has a band around his fourth finger. They both order a sensible meal – a quarter chicken with roast potatoes, a light salad on the side – and set about pretending that they’re still the same cheeky Slytherin boys they used to be. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Al shrugs.  “People change all the time.”

“Still,” he insists. “Leith really is one hell of a girl if you’re willing to give up this whole lifestyle of yours for her.”

A few metres over Scorpius’ shoulder, a waitress bends down to pick up a stray napkin from the floor, red pencil skirt clinging to her figure perfectly. Almost as if she feels eyes on her, she glances back and meets Al’s gaze. After a tentative moment, she smiles and receives a shadowy smirk in return. Something coils up in his gut in anticipation.

“Well,” he says after a moment of deliberate silence, “it doesn’t hurt that she’s great in bed.”

Scorpius chucks his napkin at his face, bursting into laughter. “You’re such a twat.”

“It’s _true._ ”

His friend only shakes his head in amused disbelief.

Al isn’t lying, however – sex with Leith is great.

Well worth everything he did to get it.

You see, sex with Leith is the high of hearing her moan his name into the expanse of their bedroom. It’s her slender legs hooked over his hips and her teeth sinking into her bottom lip when she tries to muffle her groans and it’s her wrists pinned above their heads in the shackle of his hands. It’s her, pretty and pliant underneath him, pink flush coming up from her chest and violets on her throat.

She’s always there for him whenever he starts craving for her body again. Never shakes her head no when he runs his hand questioningly over her hip for another round and never refuses his kisses. She bites love into his neck to hide the bruises he’s gotten from strangers, rubs her scent over his chest to smother foreign perfume, and never complains when he comes home fucked out by someone else.

Sometimes, he catches her glancing wistfully at the grey coat he hung up in their wardrobe. Sees her throat flex as she looks out at the dark choppy sea, white skin marked by him permanently, and there’s a thrill in him when he realises just how much he has her wrapped around his finger (around his torso).

It turns out that he was wrong; married life suits Al perfectly fine.

He’s not the one incarcerated, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> please validate me
> 
> [tumblr](%E2%80%9Delixirsoflife.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D) | twitter


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